Whispers at Night
by Two-on-a-Tower
Summary: It was important for him to make a new friend. At first, it seems as Thomas and Andy are on good terms with each other, but something changes and Thomas is on his own once again.
1. Chapter 1

On an early winter afternoon, cold and covered in snow, when only the withered branches , which like fingers grabbed at the sky, characterised the landscape, a man dressed in a black coat and hat walked down the small road to Downton Abbey.

The country house in the Jacobethan style placed itself in strong contrast to the colourless plain, which featured neither hills nor mountains, and illuminated with the help of its fairy lights, which shined through the building's countless windows, the lonesome path of the man.

Every step of the man left imprints of his boots on the ground, but the cold winter wind would soon erase all the traces left behind, and not a single man could tell whether somebody had walked along this way or not.

As the man reached the house, he didn't aim for the impressive bronze door, which was flanked by two black dragons spying fire, but for the backyard. It was a dark place, far away from the fairy lights and whelmed by grey dreariness. All the available light was shielded by high walls and merely the weeds between the breakages of the grey stone tiles on the ground brightened the darkness.

As the man reached the old door made out of robinia wood, he stopped for a moment and took a deep breath since it was a rarity in the man's life to enjoy nature's silence without disruption. Through some small cracks in the door, he could already hear various voices whereupon he saw the matching faces in his mind's eye. His gloved hand reached for the black door knob, twisting it twice to the right, before entering the building.

He was greeted by the smell and warmth of the kitchen range that had struggled through the gloom of solitude of the hallway. Leaving hat and coat behind, the man finally hurried to the nearest room: the servants' hall.

It was a large rectangular room, equipped with a massive wooden table without a table cloth that was surrounded by simple chairs. The servant bells hung on the right side of the room, antique brass stood out against the black bracket, and were hardly touched by the light of the six hand-sized lamps which clung to the ceiling as though they'd otherwise be drowning in the dark void. The highlight of the room, however, was a rocking chair in front of an open fire on the left side of the entrance. It was a cosy place where one could hide from the present, but not the past.

"Mr Barrow," a young man wearing a footman's livery bowed his head, but his eyes never left the silver cutlery he was leathering.

"Andy," the man acknowledged, forcing himself to smile. But before he pressed his lips into a thin line, he knew that the other man wouldn't look at him.

"Where are the others?" he asked instead.

"Mr Carson is in his office, taking inventory. Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore are in the kitchen." Thomas nodded in agreement. He could hear them arguing, and he already knew that Mr Bates was cleaning the boots in the adjacent room which meant that Anna would probably be there as well.

"May I go now?" Thomas looked at the younger man, who was biting on his lower lip, still refusing to make eye contact. He sighed.

"You don't have to ask me. You know that."

"Just wanted to be sure," Andy mumbled, before he left the room, leaving the silver unattended. For a second, Thomas closed his eyes while shaking his head. Andy had been ignoring him for weeks now and yet the reason was unclear.

Thomas ran his fingers through his hair and sat down on a chair near the silver. He could feel the heat of the chimney fire on his back, whence a pleasant feeling of home radiated through his body, but both his fingertips and his heart remained cold.

Thomas remembered perfectly well the day he'd met Andy. At a first glance, he'd seen that the younger man with an aura of childlike innocence was a good-hearted individual, who, with his large brown eyes, attentively observed his surroundings. Andy's impartiality and openness had made it easy for Thomas to get to know the new footman and to establish a cordial friendship. Consequently, it had been no wonder that in a minimum of time Thomas had decided that he'd exercise kind patronage towards Andy without once indulging himself with his company. He had learnt this lesson a long time ago.

When he'd given his heart to the footman Jimmy Kent, in a desperate attempt to find his harbour of comfort, he'd not only lost his love, but also his courage and confidence in the stormy sea of life. His heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces which now were only hold together by rusty nails and rotten wood. Thomas hadn't dared to expose his fragile heart once again and so he'd exercised restraint.

It'd been difficult and he'd indeed changed under his self-generated pressure, but he'd been content with his transformation. In weeks past he'd become more friendly and calmer. Instead of mockery, he used friendliness. He'd had scrupulously avoided any physical contact, although his fingers had yearned for a brief touch of the other man's skin. And yet something had changed. Their friendship was long gone and left was only the hot anger and disappointment in Thomas's stomach.

As Thomas left his thoughts and came back into reality, he was surprised to find himself leathering the silver now. _Old habits die hard_ , he thought and laughed, but laughing hurt and so he stopped.

'Oh Mr Barrow, here you are,' Mrs Hughes's voice startled him, 'Why are you sitting here all by yourself when Mrs Patmore is waiting for her ingredients?' She placed her hands on her hips, looking at him expectantly.

'Because I didn't feel like it,' said he while stretching his legs under the table. It was true; he didn't feel like it because he didn't feel like doing anything at all. With Andy's good nature gone, he was left in a pool of self-pity. Mrs Hughes lips got thinner as she pursed them, her jaw muscles moved but no sound was uttered.

'You didn't feel like it,' she eventually echoed, 'but maybe His Lordship feels like having a well-prepared dinner? So hurry and bring the ingredients!' He rolled his eyes, before he went back to his coat fishing for the compact parcel which was still in his left coat pocket. He had collected it in the village, but only after he'd run some errands for himself: dispatching a letter, buying new cigarettes and looking through some books at Bunker's bookshop, otherwise he wouldn't have done it at all. After all, he was the under-butler of Downton Abbey.

Thomas grabbed the parcel and brought it back into the kitchen. Mrs Patmore's face was flushed, her hair, although partly hidden under her bonnet, stuck sweaty on her forehead. It was hellish hot in the kitchen since both the stove and all hobs were in use. Daisy and two new kitchen maids were either cutting vegetables or stirring something in the copper pots.

'What has taken you so long?' asked Mrs Patmore, eyes fixed on the cake batter in front of her. Thomas shrugged with his shoulders.

'The weather, I assume.'

'Oh, Mrs Patmore, don't be so harsh on him,' said Daisy, with a fondness in her voice, 'I bet Thomas was full of good intentions when he offered to get our ingredients. And the weather is really bad. Look at all the snow.'

'The road to hell is paved with good intentions,' murmured Mrs Patmore in response, but she took the parcel and opened it. 'At least you've got everything I need.'

Thomas rolled his eyes and retreated to the servants' hall. He had no interest in the muttering of an old cook. Therefore he decided to go outside for a smoke in order to escape the stifling monotony.

It was cold outside, much colder than before. The piercing wind set his ears and lungs on fire, but the warm smoke of the cigarette filled his body with a feeling that resembled being alive. The midday sun was hidden behind grey and black clouds, which fenced Downton Abbey and separated the building from the rest of the world. It was a lonesome place for haunted souls.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a dark starless night, a week or ten days later. There had been several such nights since Thomas had brought the parcel to Mrs Patmore and every time he'd lost himself in the emptiness of the black sky. It was the same emptiness he felt inside himself; a condition, which was accompanied by a frightening coldness spreading all through his whole body as though it wanted to take possession of him. His body was merely a shell, in the best case a tool for the aristocracy, but it wasn't his anymore. He had lost himself somewhere in the past.

Before the night could completely devour him, he averted his gaze and turned his back on the small window in his chamber. The cold wood of the window frame pressed into his back and made him shiver. It was late at night, nearly two o'clock in the morning, but he couldn't fall asleep, wherefore he'd decided to have a cigarette. Thick smoke had wandered from his lips to the sky and the familiar smell of cheap cigarettes had helped him to relax his tense muscles, and yet his mind was still alert and his ears eager to detect even the quietest noise.

Every now and then he heard squeaking noises of doors being opened, followed by footsteps to the lavatory. After the last footsteps had retreated to their room, Thomas stood up and opened his own door silently. His feet were only in thick woollen socks as he tiptoed through the cold corridor in the direction of the staircase. A small white candle in a silver candlestick, which Thomas carried in his right hand, illuminated the dark corridor and painted the grey walls in orange light. He moved light-footedly, leaving those stairs out which creaked, and soon arrived at the basement.

He went to the kitchen, his candlelight reflected from the copper pots painting orange dots on the walls, and helped himself to one of the wine bottles Mrs Patmore used for cooking.

The bottle was already half empty, and as Thomas lifted the cork, putting the candle on the table first, he smelt the familiar scent of wine. The sweat odour stimulated the saliva production in his mouth and with the carelessness of the youth he drank right from the bottle. Therefore, under the spell of wine, he didn't hear the steady footsteps approaching him.

'What are you doing? Thomas winced and spilled some wine on the floor as he turned around in order to hide the bottle behind his back. The voice was followed by a light and finally by a face. Andy was standing with a candle in his left hand in the doorframe. The dim light of the candle blurred his facial contour with the dark of the night. His eyes, however, which reflected the low flame stood out and gazed knowingly at the under-butler.

'For heaven's sake, Andy,' said Thomas, eyes widened in surprise. 'You gave me quite a fright. What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?'

'I saw a light,' began the footman, his voice a mere whisper, 'Right through some door cracks, and after the light didn't return to its room, I decided to go and check if everything's alright. At first, I didn't know where to go, but then I saw the light in the stairwell again; faint but still visible, and I, I simply followed.' Andy came closer and as he stopped, both candle flames banded together, driving away the shadows which had afore lingered on their faces.

'So, what are you doing here, Mr Barrow,' inquired Andy, his eyes darted from Thomas's face to his hands, one of them was still behind his back.

'I did the same,' said Thomas, 'I thought, I've heard something, but everything's indeed alright. So go back to bed, Andy.' The under-butler showed him a smile, pressing his thin lips onto each other. On a closer look, however, one might have seen that the purpose of this smile was to hide his trembling lips since the unexpected closeness of the footman flustered him.

'No,' said Andy, with a furrowed brow, 'I won't go. Something is not right. What are you hiding?'

'I'm not hiding anything. But if you ask me, what I'm holding in my right hand then I can tell you that this is one of Mrs Patmore's wine bottles.' With an elegant gesture, Thomas put the bottle on the table. The red wine danced for a moment in the shadow of the night, before it also adjusted to the overwhelming silence.

'So, they're right,' concluded the footman, 'You're a liar and a thief.'

'Says who?' Andy shrugged his shoulder.

'Some of the others. They've warned me; said you were a bad influence.'

'And you've believed them. After all the things I've done for you.' Thomas sneered and seated himself on one of the kitchen chairs, his long legs entwined with the chair legs. 'Do you remember Mrs Denker and how I saved you? Or how you eagerly listened to my advice in the beginning?' Andy nodded in agreement, but his eyes were still fixed on the bottle of wine.

'So let me just ask one question:' Thomas continued, 'What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?'

'What?' cried Andy, clasping his hands over his head, his eyes wide in astonishment. 'What do you mean? I've never treated you disrespectfully. I, I-'

'You what? You've just treated me how I've deserved to be treated because I'm a thief and a liar?' Thomas laughed coldly. 'You could have asked me, Andy, and I'd have told you everything, but you've chosen to keep out of my way. From one day to the next, you've treated me differently, avoided me. And I? I've just got so cold and angry.' Thomas eyes were empty as he looked up. 'I won't deny that I did steal and that I did lie, but that was nearly ten years ago. How much longer must I suffer from my past mistakes? Every mistake of the others is easily forgiven, but not mine. No! I still am the liar and the thief.' He reached for the bottle and drank. The wine had got warm from the nearby candle light, but warmth was exactly what he needed.

After he'd put the bottle back on the table, he looked at the younger footman, who was still standing, lost and misguided, in the middle of the kitchen.

'There is more to it, isn't it?' said Thomas with artificial amusement, 'Oh yes. Your face is showing it. Your lovely, lovely face – it is so communicative. Even though, you don't speak with me anymore, I can see troubles, but also happiness, on your face.'

Thomas stood up and circled around the table. Not a single sound was heard as he raised his hands but the noticeable tenseness, which hovered in mid-air, prevented him from placing them on the soft skin of the younger man.

'Mr Barrow-,' whispered Andy in an attempt to explain himself, but he wasn't heard.

The under-butler growled and lowered his hands.

'Hush!' said he, 'Don't speak. You've already said enough. Don't look at me like this. Do you think I didn't see how you flinched as I came near you? I saw and now I know. I know what they've told you. They said, I was a liar, a thief and a foul creature, didn't they? Oh, yes. I can see it now. How blind must I have been not to see it earlier? And you agree with them, don't you? You also can't wait for the day they'll come and get me. Life imprisonment – that's the only thing I deserve, because I'm foul and damaged. But I can tell you, I didn't choose to be who I am and yet I have to live in fear.' Thomas paused; his lips and throat were dry, but the roaring of his blood in his ears urged him to continue. 'Is that a tear in your eye, Andy? What a waste! Don't cry for me, please, don't do it. I'm already lost - a creature of the night, unable to live among others. I am, Andy, a homosexual. They were right. I loved Jimmy like I've never loved a man before, but – and now listen carefully – I've learnt my lesson and I'd have never touched or hassled you. I can, indeed control myself. I won't jump on you like a bitch on heat. Do you understand that? Thank God, because I'd rather die than see you unhappy. The only thing I've ever wanted was your friendship. What a foolish wish to have. Nobody can be friends with a homosexual, a thief, a liar.' Thomas shook his head and reached slowly for the wine again. With three great gulps and closed eyes, he emptied the bottle and put it back on the table.

'What have I done?' Thomas whispered, 'What have I said?' He looked at Andy, who was watching him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. 'Forget what I've said. I'm a fool, a love-obsessed fool.' He took his candlestick, the red light merged with the red blotches on his face. 'Maybe all of this was a dream. Or am I delirious? I'm not feeling well, Andy. I'll go back to bed. I think you should do the same. It is really cold in the kitchen.'

Andy didn't dare to speak, and like a Greek statue, he observed silently how the flames broke off as Thomas trotted back to the attic.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you, Simin and Ginafisch, for your lovely and motivating comments._

The next day, when the sweet smell of Christmas was in the wind, immingling with the numbing cold air of the dawning day, Andy, after cleaning and returning boots of the family members and the upper servants, crept sleepily downstairs, still unsure if yesterday's event was real or only a trick of his mind.

As he entered the greyish servant's hall near the kitchen, where his nightmare might still be waiting, he felt immediately that something wasn't right. His eyes, tired and light-sensitive, scanned the room, hopped from face to face, before they stopped on the empty chair next to Mrs Hughes.

'Where is Mr Barrow?' he asked in confusion as Thomas's feverish face, Pale and with bloodshot eyes, appeared in his mind's eye and forced him to accept that yesterday's event was indeed real.

'Good morning to you, too, Andrew,' said Mr Carson peevishly, 'Mr Barrow reported in sick this morning but that should not be your concern. Even though I can't approve of his absence one day before Christmas Eve, it seems like this is an early opportunity to see how we can maintain the high standards of Downton Abbey without an under-butler.'

'What does that mean, Mr Carson? He can't be sacked just because he's sick.' Andy's hands trembled as he reached for his chair. With a swift movement, he pulled it up from under the table and sat down next to the only hall boy at the end of the table.

'I didn't say that, Andrew, but as it is well-known, Downton Abbey has to reduce its staff. This is an inevitable measure, but nothing is decided yet, even though some members of the staff are more needed than others, and an under-butler simply is a superfluous position, don't you agree?'

Andy nodded, not in agreement but in comprehension. He was indeed aware that time had been changing the world and affecting the Abbey, but he'd never thought that Mr Barrow's position was compromised. Lost in thoughts, he ate his breakfast (two slices of bread-and-butter and a cup of tea) in silence while the others conducted conversations.

Mr and Mrs Bates were talking about their cottage. It was an ongoing debate about whether they needed an extra room or not. Mr Mosley and Ms Baxter, on the other side, were whispering in gentle tones, but a smile, which could be seen by turns on each of their faces, bespoke that they were in complete agreement and happy with their current situation. For a moment Andy eyed Thomas's empty chair, which, in the faint rays of the morning sun, served as an unrecognised monument to servant's abundance in a time of inevitable change, before he looked at Mr Carson, who was reading the newspaper, and then at Mrs Hughes who was eating her porridge. As he was staring at them, his mind occupied with proceeding what was happening around him, his heart picked up its courage and let him speak without being muted by prejudice and interference.

'Mr Carson,' Andy asked after short moment, finishing his meal, 'may I bring Mr Barrow his breakfast on a tray? He won't be too sick to eat, will he?' The voices around him became suddenly low, and concerned eyes darted from Mr Carson to Andy. The unwanted attention from the other members of the staff made him uncomfortable and he began to wonder if he'd done something wrong.

'Thank you, Andrew, but this won't be necessary. Young Arthur will bring a tray to him right after breakfast.' The hall boy nodded eagerly. 'Furthermore, I think, that, as a footman, it's not your task to serve an under-butler. So stay away from his room and attend to your tasks as the second footman of Downton Abbey.'

'Yes, Mr Carson,' said Andy and stood up, preparing the table before he started to clean the silverware. One by one the servants resumed to their work: Mr Mosley, under the observant eyes of Mr Carson, was laying the breakfast table for the family, Mr and Mrs Bates and Ms Baxter, on the other side, were assisting to wash and dress the family. Andy, however, had to remain downstairs, polishing the silver and keeping the front door bell in sight.

As a matter of fact, the mindless task of polishing silverware didn't help him to get Mr Barrow out of his head. Quite the contrary, since it was Mr Barrow who had taught him to clean it effectively and accurately. Andy paused for a moment and closed his eyes. He tried to picture Mr Barrow: dark hair with greying temples, steel-grey attentive eyes. Once, he'd been standing behind him, looking over his shoulders and checking his work. The memory was accompanied by the smell of cigarettes and castor oil, and a smile which, when Andy though about it, had been honest in its intension but forged in its performance.

The younger man sighed and returned to his work. He was aware that Mr Barrow had always been kind and indulgent to him, and yet, last night, the older man had admitted his lies and illicit actions without delay. 'Bygone lies,' Andy mumbled absentmindedly, remembering what his father had used to say: 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.' He reached for another silver spoon and began polishing once again, his left leg was bouncing up and down.

Lying and stealing was one thing, but being attracted to men was another. In his young life, Andy had never encountered a homosexual, and so he was astonished that nearly every member of the staff knew about Mr Barrow. Did Lord Grantham know? Probably since Mr Carson wouldn't withhold such information. Andy grabbed another spoon. Something didn't fit. If Mr Barrow had been such a monster like he'd been described by the others, than why was he still employed? Or imprisoned? Andy let go of the silver spoon and the polishing cloth and cupped his chin in his right hand as a soft-footed shadow caught his attention.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Arthur, the hall boy, who was unusually tall for one so young, with dark eyes and hairs, and yet fair skin and a kind but insecure smile. He was handed a tray by one of the kitchen maids, and Andy was sure that he saw a teapot and cup as well as some bread, cheese and some sweets, probably given secretly by Daisy, on it. As the boy went upstairs, carrying the tray while being tensed up in concentration. Andy's thoughts were tumbling. Why was the boy allowed to go upstairs, when he wasn't? What was the difference between him and all the others?

Unconsciously, he took another silver spoon and tightened his grip around it as though he was afraid of drowning in the current circumstances. In the end, he didn't drown nor did his thoughts stop and so time had gone by and the others reappeared slowly. As Andy observed the faces which had caused so much confusion and pain, a tranquil mood had come over him and a decision had been made: He had to talk to Thomas, and with sweating palms and cold fingertips he continued to polish the remaining silverware.


	4. Chapter 4

Whenever the night's darkness descended upon the attic, covering rooms and corridors in a black coat and erasing smells and traces of the bygone day, it seemed as though nothing could disturb the inhabitants' rest.

The low and heavy sound of the old grandfather clock, which was crafted out of hardwood and veneer, floated from the saloon to the other parts of the house as it struck twelve, unheard by those who were asleep, and at the same time anxiously anticipated by those who wanted to make use of the night.

Andy was sitting in his bedroom, counting from one to twelve at the same pace as the clock was striking. The night was still young, but since everybody had gone to bed early in order to gather the strength needed for tomorrow's Christmas festival, Andy didn't feel the need to wait any longer. Still fully dressed, but without his livery jacket and waistcoat on, he was sitting on his cot with the familiar pressure of springs against his left leg in the dark room. He didn't dare to light a candle and so the only distraction of his thoughts was the deep blue night sky, which, bristled with pinpoint lights, resembled a soft blanket. But no matter how long he looked into the sky, his nervousness didn't dissolve in the infinity of space.

His hands were cold and sweaty, and his heart was beating fast and loud as he envisaged Thomas's reactions and answers to questions Andy wasn't sure he'd be able to ask. Minutes past by in utter silence until Andy stood up and went to his door. He pressed an ear on the wood, listening to the noises of the night, before he left his room. Denser darkness greeted him as he closed his door, but he knew the attic well enough to still find Mr Barrow's room.

A narrow hallway connected the servants' rooms, three doors on the left and four doors on the right, whereby all doors looked identically: white coloured, the paint slightly crumbled near the door knob and the ground, where swiftly feet touched the door accidentally. Mr Barrow's door, however, was easy to find since it was the first door on the left side when entering the hallway, which meant that his room was two doors to the left opposite Andy's.

The young footman wasn't sure if Mr Barrow was awake, but he had to seize this opportunity to have a word with the other man without interruption, otherwise his thoughts would never find peace.

As he entered the endless corridor, the effect of walking through a tunnel emerged. Every step reverberated from the wall and from the stained and varnished wood of the ground, appearing to be louder than usual. Fortunately the corridor wasn't long and Andy reached Mr Barrow's door unseen. He trembled from the tension, which filled his body, and as he finally raised his hand to knock on the door, he found himself unable to do so. Standing in silence, the young man bit his lips, and clenched his stiff hands. His eyes, used to the darkness, starred into the corridor, but everything was quiet under the black coat. He took a deep breath and raised his hand once again, but instead of knocking on the door, he ran his fingertips over the smooth, cool surface. The sound generated by friction was faint, and yet Andy feared that others could have heard him, little did he know that the others were indeed fast asleep.

As he placed his fingertips on the wood for a second time, he perceived movements in the other room. Something, probably a book was closed, and feet were placed on the ground, before the creaking of bedsprings indicated that Thomas was still awake and now standing. Andy stepped back, eyes and mouth wide open in expectation of what was to come. The door was opened slowly, and faint orange light became apparent, before Mr Barrow himself blocked the light again. The underbutler was only dressed in his pyjama bottoms and a plain white shirt, and yet he radiated an aura of authority that silenced Andy. With his arms crossed in front of his chest, Mr Barrow looked him steadily in the eyes, not moving, not speaking. Andy felt small under the gaze of the man, but after another heartbeat he found his courage to whisper:

'May I come in?'

Mr Barrow merely raised his right eyebrow in response, before he stepped back and let the younger man in. Andy was grateful that he finally escaped the corridor, and hurried inside.

He'd never been in Mr Barrow's room since the older man was very considerate of his privacy, but that didn't mean that Andy wasn't curious to learn more about him. The first thing Andy noted was the bed in the right corner near the window. Although the bedding was hidden under a red coverlet, the same grey colour Andy's own sheets had was visible. On the left hand side of the bed, under the window, which was wide open to let some of the cold air in, stood a bureau of dark wood, on which several belongings of Mr Barrow were distributed: a picture frame facing the bed, but the picture itself was not identifiable from his current position, an ebonised mantel clock with a bell shaped top pediment and a brass acorn finial to the very top. It was beautifully shaped and seemed rather expensive, a writing set consisting of pen and dark ink, and a black, leather-bound book with yellowed pages. There wasn't a chair in front of the bureau, which puzzled Andy for a moment, before he saw the furniture in the left corner, hidden behind the door, next to some pitchers and two different-sized washbowls along with the necessities for washing, which were placed on the top of a simple wooden shelf.

'What do you want?' asked Mr Barrow with scepticism. The underbutler had gone back to his bed and was now sitting on his red coverlet, a pack of cigarettes in his hands.

'I'd like to talk,' said Andy, 'about last night, about what you said.' He looked expectantly at the other man. Mr Barrow, however, remained silent. He had lit a cigarette and was taking a pull, his eyes fixed on the bluish smoke. As he spoke his voice was coarse and deep:

'Now you want to talk? That's funny because now I don't want to.'

'But, Mr Barrow, then why did you let me in?' Andy's eye went wide in surprise.

'Because I can't allow that somebody sees you lingering in front of my door. In the end it was me who forced you to come here.' He snorted.

'I don't think that's true,' murmured Andy, shifting from one foot to another. He eyed the chair in the corner every now and then but Mr Barrow didn't offer him to take a seat and so he remained standing in the middle of the room as though he was the most valuable exhibition piece in a museum.

Very little was said by either till Andy screwed up his courage and asked:

'How are you feeling, Mr Barrow?' The man dropped his gaze.

'Fine, thank you. It's not like I was sick or something, just,' he waved his hand, 'tired of all this.'

Andy nodded, keeping it a secret that he had already noticed Mr Barrow's red-rimmed eyes and his sickly pallor which placed itself in strong contrast to the feverish spots Andy had seen the day before.

'I'm just so confused, Mr Barrow,' Andy started again, 'I thought about what happened and what you said last night and a lot of things didn't make any sense.' The younger man looked into Mr Barrow's rigorous and composed face, hoping for a confirmatory nod.

'The others didn't lie,' he only said.

'I know. I understand that, but why are you still here?' I mean, why weren't you sacked a long time ago if you are such a _monster_?' At this, Mr Barrow tittered. It was an uncanny sound which made Andy shiver even more.

'Whatever your childish mind views as a monster – I'm not one of them. I'm just a sinner, a foul creature, a man who is not worth your friendship. So, Andrew, tell me, what do you want from me at this ungodly hour? As I said, I'm not in the mood to talk.'

'Oh, please, Mr Barrow. I just don't understand,' repeated Andy, wringing his hands.

'What?' said the other coolly, 'Lying, stealing, or homosexuality?' A smug expression emerged on his face as he saw how the other cringed at his last word.

'No, I mean, why are you still here? Your work is excellent. You could probably work everywhere.'

'Could I? With a reference written by you? You are such a dreamer, Andy.'

'No by Mr Carson, ' said Andy enraged. 'You speak as if I were quite a child and you immensely older. Why, how old do you think I am?'

'Twenty and two years,' said the underbutler immediately, before he continued, 'So you are aware of the fact that I am at least ten years older than you are, aren't you? And as long as you act like a child, I'll talk to you as with a child,' sneered Mr Barrow, but it wasn't as strong as before and for a second Andy could even hear the visible tiredness in the other man's voice. 'But let's face the facts: I started at Downton Abbey as a junior footman fifteen years ago. Ever since I've given my best, I've worked hard and now I am underbutler. If I left now, I would never again find such a well-paid employment, not at times like these where the taxes on male servants are far too high and vacancies are limited. Tell me, who do you think we'll be able to employ male servants in the future? - Your right, only the richest. And that's why I stay here.'

'But you don't like it to be here, do you?'

'No, I don't,' he admitted reluctantly, 'I despise service in general. How could I not? The rich have taken our individuality, our lives. They force us to wear uniforms, sometimes they give us names which aren't ours, and they let us work from morning to night.' His hands were fidgeting with his cigarette pack, his eyes were fixed on the younger footman. 'And you know why they can do this? Because they have money and we haven't. It's just a matter of birth. You are either very lucky or very screwed, and I'm the latter and so are you.'

 **Please leave a comment if you liked this chapter. Thank you! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Flesh Delirium** : Thank you very much for your kind words. :) "Do you intend to develop a friendship or a romance between Andrew & Thomas?" That's a good question. I mean, you're right, both would work very well. Nevertheless, I wish and intend to write a romance because Thomas finally needs to find some love in his life, but if it doesn't feel right in the course of this story, then I think I'll finish it with a frienship/ open-to-hope-for-more-ending.

'Oh, Mr Barrow, don't say that,' Andy pleaded. 'Our place in the world is given to us by God. He has saved us and called us to a holy life - not because of anything we have done but because of his own purpose and grace. We should be grateful for what we have! God has-'

'Stop it, Andy,' Mr Barrow cut in, his voice cold and sharp, 'Don't you dare to talk to me about God.' He narrowed his eyes and starred at the other, shaking his head slowly. He was aware that Andy attended the compulsory Morning prayers in the Main Hall with honest enthusiasm, but he'd never imagined to hear the other man speak so openly about his own beliefs. As he continued his voice was deep and taut.

'God has created me as he has created us all, but it was also God who made me the way I am, and yet I'm a foul creature twisted by nature. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't my decision to be what I am; it just happened. When I first noticed that I was attracted to men, I got scared. I thought it was Satan himself who led me astray. - Don't look at me like that. You must understand, my parents are very religious. Every evening my father read the bible loudly, and afterwards he asked about my faith and how often I pray. As you can imagine, he tried to _save_ me more than once – with words or actions - but as he realised that he couldn't, he led me down.' Mr Barrow paused and looked at the boy who was standing in the middle of the room, wondering why he told him once again what he'd never intended to share.

'I am a sinner,' he continued, exhausted, 'and God has made me sensible of my sins, he has made me to loathe myself, and he has made me see that there is nothing that I can do can save me. So please, don't talk with me about God.' He rubbed his eyes with his hands and was surprised how cold they were. Mr Barrow starred at the floor, lost in thoughts and weary, before he stood up slowly and closed the window. Andy remained silent for a few moments, then he said:

'I'm sorry, Mr Barrow. I really am.' The other man sighed inaudibly, his gaze fixed on the interminable horizon that faced him like an impenetrable wall. His thoughts, trapped in infinity, asked him old questions, and he wondered how it would be to be someone else somewhere else.

'What for?' asked Mr Barrow as he broke away from the daunting view and turned around, his back pressed into the wooden windowsill. As he looked at the younger man, who was still standing in his room, intimidated and lost, his eyes focused involuntarily on the curves of the lips he had studied so many times that he could reproduce them mentally with ease; and now, as they again confronted him, slightly parted with colour and life, they made him once again aware of who he was. He looked down hastily, angry at himself, as Andy spoke:

'Pardon me?'

'What are you sorry for?' repeated Mr Barrow intently, his lips pressed into a thin line. 'You aren't God, are you? It's not your fault that I am what I am.'

'No, I'm not, 'Andy looked down, biting his lower lip, 'and yet I am sorry.'

'You're not feeling sorry. What you're feeling is pity. You pity me, and I detest it.' Mr Barrow's features were stern and embittered as he spit his poisonous words. For a moment, Andy was taken aback. His heart was racing in his body, his fingers were trembling, and yet his voice was firm as he spoke:

'You're wrong, Mr Barrow. It is not you whom I pity. It's me and my naivety that I pity. If I weren't easily led by the others, I would have had the chance to get to know you without being blinded by warnings and rumours. And now I'm feeling sorry for myself because I threw away the opportunity of making a friend in a world in which friendship is the most valuable gift. Who am I to reduce you to your past? People change; they are made of experiences – both good and bad. I, like a fool, accepted what the others said without bringing it into questions. You see, I pity myself for my narrow mind.'

Both man looked at each other in silence, before Mr Barrow said:

'What is it about the night that makes us confess our deepest fears?' He smiled coldly; his eyes were clouded by darkness. 'You know, we could have been close friends. You wouldn't have had to fear me and my homosexuality, because I have never been in love since Jimmy. I've sworn to myself that I would never love again. And I did never love again, because the moment he left the Abbey, he took my heart with him.' He voice cracked, but he forced himself to continue, 'And if you think, loving men is different from loving women than I can tell you that it is not true. Both are about intimacy, trust, emotional security, but also about bodily desire. To love is to value. Even if - listen carefully - _if_ I desired you, it wouldn't be love, because love is a concept of two; and I'm not a man who forces himself on others. I wouldn't have touched you without having your say-so.' Mr Barrow paused and licked his dry lips. 'I hope you understand that homosexuality is not a mental disorder; it's just love in another form – even if it is despised by God.' Andy nodded, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, 'I didn't know. I just-' he cut off in mid-sentence. The old grandfather clock struck twice, deep and even.

'I think it time for you to go to your room,' said Mr Barrow in a flat voice, 'You've already occupied much of my time.' Again Andy nodded, before he spoke:

'Thank you – really - for telling me-'

'Yes, yes, I know. Please go to your room and leave me in peace.' Mr Barrow suddenly turned off the light and the room was covered by blackness. He placed his head in his hands and only the soft thud as the door contacts the door jamb indicated that Andy had finally left.


End file.
